The Hidden Memoirs Of Erik
by IAmTheMaskHeWears
Summary: starts out with Erik's very last page of his depression stage of his life. talks about Erik's POV. continues in his younger life upto now.
1. My Angel Has Finally Returned!

**The Hidden Memoirs of Erik, a Phantom of the Opera story**

**Chapter 1 – "My Angel Has Returned!"**

My Dear Memoir,

This is going to be one of my last memoirs but, the most of all the best memoirs I have written, even after I have accidentally destroyed my precious opera house. Thinking, reminiscing, of how l'Opera Populair is going to succeed without me; but the thing is that I know, everyone who lived in the dormitories _know_ themselves that _without me_, the l'Opera wouldn't have "Populair" in the name.

Standing in the middle of the trashed stage and looking at the charred seats that are close to the stage, and the rest of the seats untouched by fire but toughed by dust for a week or two; just reminiscing there, I start weeping, bawling like a little child that I am.

Just sitting there, waiting, urging myself to stop crying; someone opened the door leading away from the marble foyer into the very opera itself, where I was sitting in. A stream of light coming through the torn ceiling shown down on the invader; I'm pleased that some good of destroying my only home has come, that and blocking some of the obvious entry ways into my home.

As I quickly pulled myself together and got up, turning the majority of my back toward the intruder, but giving a cold and watchful eye to this mystery person, I watched and waited until the first move has been made.

I see that this person is a young woman, looks a year younger than me. Wearing a black hooded cloak with red velvet lining underneath over her Victorian dress; her dress looks light because she's not using hoops to show her aristocratic rank. Her dress is the colour of my favourite shade of black with a hint of blue – reminds me of the colour of summer midnight. The light from behind her as she closes the door gives her an aura, giving the illusion that she's pure.

I thought to myself, _Great, Christine's back. She's the person who I gave everything to; my music, my experience of music, my passion, my home, everything that belonged to me, and even my love, which _she_ destroyed. I can't see myself loving again. Not now, not _ever.

She walks in, closing the thick carved oak door behind her. Light from the outside world is seeping in, it must be noon. I can see the details of this young woman. The torso-part of her dress seems to be just a corset and the flowing bottom-part is just attached, touching the floor, making one whole dress. Her black cloak, every time she would put her hands up to cover her face from the brightness of the sun, I spotted rose-patterns on the red-velvet lining. _Exactly the same material and patterns on the lapels of my petticoat that I'm wearing right now_, I thought.

She now walked to the center of the aisle of the sea of audiences' seats all around her. She paused, I waited, and she takes off her cloak. I still can't see her face; the sun's rays are behind and around the both of us now. I turn around, fully facing this quiet intruder. I can now see some of her features. Her hair is not quite long, just two inches below her shoulders, and jet black. She pushed back her hair soft luscious hair. Her "center" line of her hair is at the left of her head, making her right hair cover one/third of her right face.

She's walking closer to the stage now. _Ba-bump, ba-bump..._ My heart is racing, I ask myself why. Her walk is graceful; I'm intrigued by the way the dust flies as she walks past a few rays of light. _Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. _My heart is beating faster now.

She stops and picks up a flute just inches away from the stage and checks to see if it's damaged. Hearing a relief sigh, she continues on her journey towards the stage.

I'm thinking of who would play the flute, _There are no females playing any instrument in Monsieur Reyer-- the maestro's orchestra. The majority of the players think of a female playing with them a jinx for the whole act_, I thought.

She jumps on stage; I was shocked and intrigued by her actions. _Who in the world is she? For such an elegant young woman, she should really reconsider taking the stairs placed at the either side of the stage. _Then I looked at both stairs, _She wins this battle... _

The way she jumps, with one arm planted at the side of the stage. How she would jump over the floor lamps lining the stage's edge, knowing to take off her planted right hand and push her weight giving her extra power to make it over the lamps and landing on her feet breaking no sweat. _This reminds me of one of the acrobats in my old traveling carnival_, I thought.

She's very close to me now. I walk some steps backwards maintaining space between us. After all, I am a gentleman at heart. _Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump..._ My heart feels like it's going to rip out of my chest. I feel warm on both of my cheeks on my face, on my left exposed side and my right, disfigured, masked side of my face. I thank God that I made more than one mask.

_Why am I blushing? _My heart is slowing its pace. A sound of a soft flute is playing in the background as I think._ No one ever makes me blush except a girl from that cursed place I _used_ to call home! _I thought, _Wait! I know who she is! She's – It can't be! She's –_

Already facing me; it seems like she's been waiting at that spot for a while, waiting for me to get my bearings. She stops playing. _Wait, she was playing? How come I didn't hear her play? _Music is the only thing that would calm me down. Let me re-phrase that, anything to do with music calms me down. Let it be writing nor listening. I noticed that she's wearing a mask, a distinct black domino cocktail mask. _How typical of her to wear a mask; her old mask._

"It's been too long Erik," she said with her soft voice putting the flute down. She takes tiny steps closer to me. She slowly takes off her mask; I can see small tears of joy lining from her eyes nearly falling away from her soft angled chin. Thus making her eyes in a soft light rose of a colour as her eyes puffed,

I take a quiet gulp, holding in my tears of joy and answered very calmly not losing my cool, trying so hard to keep my gentlemen-like posture, "I agree Angel, 17 years to be exact."

We both slowly walk up to each other, locking eyes, even giving each other silent glances, we hugged. After 17 long years, I hugged my first friend in my _whole entire life_. She's the first one who taught me love, and I loved her back. She's like a mother, sister, and even a _wife_ to me back then. She was my joy, my _everything_, all until we separated, when I was at a healthy age of eight.

We're still hugging for a few more minutes and we let go and hold hands, Angel asked to break the silence and the wave of shock and joy, "So Erik, how's my first love doing for the past decade and seven years while we we're separated?"

I gave a meek smile and answered, "For seventeen years, I've been dying to tell you, to talk to you before we part forever; but for now, we have all the time in the world to catch up."

And so, my dear memoir, I can at last say that all my years of angst, loneliness, depression, isolation, and the fear of never loving again are now over! At long last, Angel, my Angel has brought me back to earth from the years of hell I've been living in! Again, I say: after the longest wait of my life, my Angel has returned to me!

The last page of my sad, pointless, isolated life.

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except for my own character Angel, my imagination, and my dignity.**

**A/N: this is the last "page" of Erik's memoirs, if you want me to write his beginning and middle memoirs, please review. If not, then I have to dub this story a "one shot" then the character Angel will be lost forever, same goes for Erik's past life and mind. So I repeat: please review for me to continue! (kind of rhymes... lol) **


	2. First Entry

Dear Memoir,

It has been four years since I have left my old good-for-nothing place of a home. I am now twelve years of age and I left the bastards from that wretched carnival at the age of eight. I wouldn't have escaped without Louise Giry, a senior in the ballet hall, nearly the elite leader in the ballet corps. Thanks to her, I have escaped with the charge of first degree murder.

Now, a number of years past since my great escape, but I have an itch of what people call "homesickness". I miss... I miss. Argh! I can't say her name especially in writing. She's the only one who taught me to live to love and love to live. But I can only love to live with her. Now she's gone forever, I have a gaping hole in my heart and in my soul. _Sigh_, she had taught me everything about life.

Let us try to talk about something else, shall we? Talking about her is making me even more homesick. I will continue talking about teaching. I have been taught the basics of education: reading, writing and a limited knowledge of math, in the carnival by a gypsy. I never miss a teaching session without my companion. God, I miss her so. I've been taught by carnival for roughly four years or less. Thanks to my master, whom I had killed, wouldn't let me go to class at all during the evening. So the gypsy moved the classes early in the morning, that's the only time I can see others during sunlight.

Anyway, I have continued my education here, in l'Opera Populair Paris, France; my new home for now on and forever. I learned history, geography, visual arts, musical arts, dramatic arts, especially the arts, and English. It feels like I am more intelligent compared to Louise's classmates. I never knew how easy senior classes in high school (I believe that's what it's called) could be. Louis's classmates are all about appearing intelligent, but really they are intelligent as King Louis himself. Ha! I feel so superior over their stupidity! They are so stupid to the obvious that they never look to the back of the room where the light never touches. I sit there ever so quietly writing the answers to every question. I check my answers with Louise's and if it's right, I let her borrow my answer. It's funny how Louise is the only one who sits at the back.

I would like to point out that I "finished" school. I just merely left off where I ended and continued. I guess what Louise calls "grade eleven" is based on Monsieur Shakespeare's work. I have a great advantage because I have already read all of his classics. Bien for moi. Louise is attending a class that "teaches" you to write an opera. She tells me that she signed up to help me find a hobby for myself when she finished college and continues ballet. I don't blame her really; it's good to have a backup plan just in case. But then again, she doesn't need that class.

I am actually getting really bored staying in this filthy pigsty the inhabitants of the opera house call the catacombs. I guess I'll clean up the rubble and I'll set the decor to my liking.

Till then, au revoir memoir, Erik


End file.
